The headquarters of the Gold Cloaks was unusually quiet that morning—quiet in the way a storm holds its breath. Inside the Commander's chamber sat Ser Addam Marbrand, a man who had spent half his life riding into battle but still trembled at the sight of mountains of paperwork.
Scrolls, reports, and ink-stained parchment were stacked in chaotic piles across his broad wooden desk. Addam stared at them with the expression of someone watching an executioner sharpening an axe. His tall, lean frame shifted uncomfortably, golden cloak draped over his polished dark-red armor, copper-colored hair brushing his shoulders.
He had been an attendant to Lord Tywin Lannister since he was young, and the path before him had always been straightforward and honorable. He was knighted early, known for both his martial skill and loyalty, and his courage during the Battle of the Blackwater River had earned him Tywin's direct appointment as Commander of the City Watch.
Yet now this formidable knight sat slumped in a chair like a defeated recruit, glaring at reports as though they were sworn enemies.
"The second son of House Lake injured someone while drunk on Silk Street," he muttered under his breath. "The injured party demands one hundred gold dragons…"
He flipped the parchment aside and picked up another.
"Commoners fighting over stalls at Mud Gate—several dead and injured…"
Another report, another headache.
"A Cardinal of the Faith molested Ser Carleigh's eldest son during a baptism—Carleigh demands execution…"
Addam's jaw twitched. He slammed the documents onto the desk.
"Seven hells! Is it always this kind of disgusting nonsense?"
The urge to crumple every scroll into a ball and hurl them into the wastebasket was nearly overwhelming. And for a brief moment… honor lost the battle.
Thud—
The entire stack landed in the wastebasket.
Addam leaned back, eyes closed, inhaling deeply.
Bliss.
He would gladly march into battle against Stannis's hundred thousand troops again if it meant escaping this torment. Dragons he could handle. Soldiers he could handle. Even wildfire he could handle.
But paperwork?
This was torture.
His mind drifted—as it often did—to Janos Slynt.
"All this shit is because of that bastard Janos Slynt," he growled.
Under Slynt, the City Watch's full strength of ten thousand had been stuffed with drunkards, bribe-takers, and phantom pay collectors. Joslyn Bywater had cleaned house, but then the Blackwater battle had wiped out nearly a third of the remaining watchmen.
Now Addam had barely four thousand men. And even fewer who could be considered competent.
Four thousand soldiers… to maintain order in a capital bursting with over half a million people—and swelling daily from war refugees.
Impossible. Simply impossible.
He rubbed his forehead, hoping for a moment of silence.
He received the opposite.
A sudden clamor erupted outside his window—shouting, metal clanging, voices overlapping.
"Gods damn it…"
Addam shot upright, marched to the window, and flung it open.
"Shut the fuck up!" he bellowed. "Another sound and I'll toss the lot of you into the dungeons!"
The courtyard fell instantly quieter.
Satisfied, he slammed the window shut and dropped back into his chair.
Peace, blessed peace.
It lasted seven seconds.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Enter!" Addam barked, refusing to open his eyes.
The door creaked open. Soft, deliberate footsteps approached. A polite smile accompanied a syrupy voice.
"My Lord Commander, forgive the interruption."
Addam's eyes cracked open. The moment he saw the man, his irritation eased slightly.
Humphry Waters—Captain of the Dragon Gate Watch. A clever man, useful with tedious work. A good confidant.
"What's happening outside?" Addam demanded. "Why is it so loud?"
Humphry stepped forward quickly. "It's Captain Sven Rothesby, my lord. He has returned from Flea Bottom."
Addam sat up fully.
"Is there news of Tyrek Lannister?"
The missing boy—Tywin's own nephew—had vanished during the recent riot. Tywin was overseeing the case personally. Every day without progress was another stone pressing on Addam's chest.
Humphry hesitated perfectly, lowering his eyes.
"Well… no, not exactly."
Addam's expression darkened.
"But Captain Sven did handle a significant matter in Flea Bottom," Humphry continued. "He claims to have captured the former owner of the fighting pit—Rorger. A fugitive. Reportedly turned in by the new owner, Ralf."
Humphry paused, gauging Addam's reaction.
"He says Ralf betrayed Rorger."
Then Humphry added, voice mild but loaded with implication:
"You know Captain Sven is always very diligent when it comes to Flea Bottom."
Addam frowned, missing all the subtle hints. Humphry's eyes flickered with amusement. The Commander had many strengths, but political nuance was not one of them.
Addam slammed his palm onto the desk.
"I don't give a damn about the petty feuds of Flea Bottom ruffians!" he shouted. "Tell Sven Rothesby to stop wasting time and focus on finding Tyrek Lannister!"
Humphry bowed slightly. "Yes, my lord."
Addam rubbed his temples.
"That wet nurse from House Hafford came crying again this morning," he muttered. "Carrying the boy's young wife in her arms and wailing about distant relatives trying to steal their inheritance."
He groaned. "Gods, it was like being stabbed in the head."
Humphry bit his lips to hide his smirk.
House Hafford's tragedy was infamous. Nearly the entire family had been wiped out during the War of the Five Kings. Only an infant girl remained. Tywin had—generously, everyone whispered—married his nephew Tyrek to the baby so he could eventually inherit the lands.
A brilliant political maneuver.
Unfortunately, the boy had disappeared before it could pay off.
Lady Hafford, not even a year old, was now—by Westerosi law—the youngest widow in the Seven Kingdoms.
Humphry had to admit: it was both tragic and, in a twisted way, enviable. If only he, bastard though he was, had such fortune. But he knew better. Nobles did not marry bastards—unless desperate, dying, or stupid.
Addam suddenly stood.
"I'm going out," he said abruptly. "You handle these damn papers!"
Before Humphry could protest, Addam shoved him down into the chair.
Humphry stared at the mountains of paperwork, his soul wilting.
Addam stretched, rolling his shoulders.
"I heard Ser Jaime is back. I should go greet him—"
He didn't get to finish.
A familiar voice drifted in from the hallway—loud, exasperated, and very Lannister.
"Seven hells, spare me, Jaime!"
A second voice said nothing, but the irritation in the air was palpable.
The first continued dramatically:
"Do you have any idea how busy I am? King Robert left debts higher than the Wall! And the wedding of Joffrey and Margaery—do you know how much that costs? The Gold Cloaks' wages aren't secured, the Iron Throne is bleeding coin…"
The complaining voice reached a crescendo.
"Tell me why—why, in all the Seven Kingdoms—should I, a Lannister, worry about not having enough gold dragons?!"
Addam blinked.
"Is that…?"
Humphry nodded, barely containing a grin.
"Lord Tyrion."
Of course. Who else could complain about gold while being born into the richest family in Westeros?
Addam sighed, rubbing his forehead again. Peace was impossible in
this city. Tywin wanted answers. Tyrion wanted money. Humphy wanted promotion. Sven wanted recognition.
And all Addam wanted—something he would never, ever get—was silence.